


Domestic Bliss

by LeviathanHomeCooking



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Cock Warming, Dom/sub, Domestic Discipline, M/M, Spanking, Total Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25043302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeviathanHomeCooking/pseuds/LeviathanHomeCooking
Summary: A series of glimpses into Jack and Brock's...unique relationship.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 originally written for [RumRollins Week 2019](https://leviathanhomecooking.tumblr.com/post/189416835903)

Brock wakes up alone. Not that he wasn’t expecting it, but was hoping not to. Jack’s side of the bed is empty and cold, and he looks at it longingly. He has to face the music at some point, so he figures it’s best to get it over with.

Brock walks out of the bedroom and goes to the living room. He figured after Jack had stormed out after their fight last night he would have returned and slept on the couch, but the couch was undisturbed. The throw blanket was still folded over the back and the pillow hadn’t moved from the armchair. A quick peek out the window tells Brock that Jack’s truck is still gone. Jack hadn’t come back yet.

Brock collapses on the couch and rubs his palms over his face. He really fucked up this time. 

Brock checks his phone. No new messages from Jack. He sits on the couch and thinks for a while, staring into the void. He’s broken from his stupor by his stomach growling, he’s been awake for two hours with no food. 

Brock initiates his normal morning routine just to kill time. He’s frequently checking the clock and his phone, alternates between mindless tasks like doing laundry and moping on the couch for hours. Jack should have been home a while ago, he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, they pretty much just have each other.

In a brief moment of fear, Brock goes through the master closet. Jack things are all still there, and that comforts Brock for the moment. Around twelve, he texts Jack, asking where he is. There’s no response. It’s another four hours of waiting until Brock finally hears Jack’s truck in the driveway.

Jack walks in all casual, holding grocery bags, and only glances at Brock on his way to the kitchen. Jack just unloads groceries in silence, and Brock is so tense waiting for the peace to shatter at any moment. He can hear the clatter of pots and pans for a while, sizzling on the stove, and a delicious smell hangs in the air. 

Jack isn’t as good of a cook as Brock but he’s capable in the kitchen. It’s rare for him to cook, so Brock gets up to investigate. He can see there’s steaks in the pan that Jack is looming over, and something in the oven. 

He just lingers there, watching, unsure of what to say. 

Jack takes notice and glances over his shoulder. “Gotcha somethin’, it’s in the bag on the table.” He says. Brock carefully shuffles over to the table as if expecting the brown paper bag there to explode. He wouldn’t put it past Jack to do such a thing, blow them both up in his anger. 

But what Brock pulls out of the bag isn’t in IED, it’s a bottle of wine. A simple, yet classy vintage that the sales person probably recommended to Jack. 

“...what’s all this for?” Brock asks.

Jack sets two wine glasses on the table and takes the bottle to open it. The normally pleasant sound that comes from pouring wine into the glass is hard for Brock to enjoy in this circumstance. “Your birthday.” Jack says.

Brock blinks. That _was_ today, wasn’t it? He completely forgot. More importantly, why did that matter right now?

“What about—” 

“We’ll talk about it later.” Jack says firmly. “First, we’re gonna sit down to a nice meal.”

“Jack—” Brock tries again. 

“ _Later_.” Jack repeats, glaring Brock down. Brock reluctantly submits. 

Jack holds out a glass and Brock takes it. He swirls it around, closing his eyes to take in the scent, and savors it when he takes a taste. Jack is not as sophisticated, simply sipping as he watches Brock over his glass. “Set the table?” Jack suggests and Brock does so.

It’s tense, but they sit down to a quiet meal. The food is good, and so is the wine, even if Brock is still nervously anticipating the taste of poison that never comes. When there are only scraps left, Jack sets aside the dishes. “Gotcha somethin’ else.” He says, pulling out a little black box and setting it in front of Brock.

As happy as Brock would be to accept another watch or a pair of cuff-links from Jack, he doesn’t think he deserves it. Maybe that’s Jack's goal, to make him swim in his own guilt until he drowns. Brock spends a little too long fiddling with the box and staring at it. 

“Open it.” Jack says. 

Brock flips the lid and freezes. He looks from the box to Jack, and then back. 

“I don’t understand…” He says, staring at the simple gold band nestled pretty in the box.

“I... _cheat_ on you and you...ask me to _marry you?_ ” Brock asks hopelessly. Jack is looking back at him evenly, no malice or anger to be found. It’s got to be some kind of joke, a trap with Jack waiting to pull the rug out from beneath, play with his emotions like Brock did to him. 

Jack sighs, “I know you, Brock. You’re naturally chaotic. You need _order_ , you need _discipline_ , and you _crave it_. And that’s what I’m here for, to keep you on the right track and falling into your naturally chaotic ways, that’s what makes us an effective team.”

He continues, “I made the mistake of underestimating the extent that you needed it. Should’ve known you’d go around spreadin’ your legs, ‘cause with every inch you’ll take a mile. It’s not even because you want those other people, it’s because you want _me_ to _react_. You want me to claim you.” Brock opens his mouth to say something, but Jack cuts him off, “And don’t try to pretend you don’t ‘cause I can see that glazed-over fucked-out look on your face. Turnin’ to mush whenever I put you in your place, bossin’ you around, when I’m _possessive_.”

Brock’s face goes red, he can’t deny it. 

Jack taps the lid of the box. “And that’s what I’m offering you: Rules. Boundaries. _Order_.” 

There’s a long suffering moment of silence as Jack waits for Brock’s response. Brock plucks the ring from its carrier, examines it idly, contemplating. “What did you have in mind?” He asks.

“Out there, in the field, at work, you’re in charge. But here, in this house, in this _relationship_ , I call the shots. Ground rules: you belong to me. You don’t so much as _look_ at anyone else without my permission, much less fuck anybody. That means no flirting either, especially with Rogers.”

“I don’t flirt with Rogers.” Brock insists.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true. It’s called being friendly, which your antisocial ass wouldn’t know.”

The seriousness on Jack’s face flickers, but he remains stern. Brock concedes, “Fine. I’ll keep my distance.” Jack nods, pleased.

“What about work?” Brock asks after a beat, there are no limits to what Hydra will demand of its members, much less the demand of SHIELD agents. 

“You do what needs to be done, but you still ask permission.” Jack says, “The same rules apply to me.” How egalitarian of him. 

“Is this a ceremonial thing or legal?”

“We’ll go down to the courthouse tomorrow.”

“Ain’t changin’ my name.” 

“Me neither.”

Brock can’t help a little chuckle. Leave it to them to turn a marriage proposal into a negotiation. 

“So, what do you say? Do you, Brock Rumlow…” Jack takes the ring and holds up Brock’s hand. “Take me, Jack Rollins…” Jack slips the gold band snugly onto Brock’s finger. The glittering metal is a stark contrast from Brock’s worn hands. “As your lawfully wedded husband. In sickness, and in health…” Jack holds Brock’s palm warm, and safe his own. 

“...’till death do us part?” 

Brock is lost in the earnestness of Jack’s fern green eyes, and it’s taking everything in him not to just break out in a big grin and jump the man right then and there. Brock can’t even speak, he just nods. Jack’s mouth splits into a wide, eager grin, the edges of his eyes crinkling in that charming way it does. 

“Yeah?” He breathes a sigh of relief. “Yeah.” Brock confirms. Neither knows who moved first, but they crash face-first into each other in a biting messy kiss. 

And then Jack is grabbing Brock by the throat, licking the taste of him from his lips. His face breaks out in a familiar sadistic smile that has Brock squirming in anticipation. 

“But first, I should punish you for that little stunt you pulled.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Still mad, baby?” Jack asks, sickeningly sweet, and the only person crazy enough to poke the hornet’s nest.

It takes everything in Brock to not let himself explode. Every muscle of his body is tense, but he pretends to not have heard Jack speak, instead continuing to dump clothes into the washer none too gently. 

Brock Rumlow is a man with an explosive temper and predisposition to moodiness on a good day, and a downright threat on a bad one. It had been a bad day in itself, with the last op going awry with Rumlow scrambling to clean up the mess, but his discontent had been boiling up for a while now. Discontent that Jack had sown. 

Jack hasn’t touched him in three weeks. 

_ “You’re all mine, Princess, and I’ll give you all the love and attention you need and more. All I ask in return is that you obey me.” _ That’s what Jack had promised him, in that condescending tone he likes to put on during their scenes, the one that makes Brock feel small in all the best and worst ways. 

That’s what Brock had agreed to when they married, to be entirely owned and possessed by him, and in return Jack would give him all the attention he desired. But his husband has barely touched him at all recently, nothing except teasing barely-there careesses, pretend “accidental” brushes against each other, looming over and reaching around Brock to get things instead of just asking him to move.

“The silent treatment, really?” Jack says, but he’s clearly amused and Brock doesn’t even need to turn around to know he’s got a big, smug grin on his face. He can smile like that because he’s not the one who’s been celibate these past few weeks. 

Brock’s not allowed to touch himself, let alone come, without Jack’s permission.

In theory it doesn't sound all that difficult. Brock is an adult, he can go a little while without getting off and he’s done it before. But Jack does everything in his power to tease and torment him. Brock never had much patience and even less self-restraint, so his frustration has been bubbling up.

“C’mere, baby.” Jack orders, but Brock pretends he doesn’t hear.

“Brock, I said come here.” Jack’s tone is sharper this time, it leaves no room for negotiation.

Brock reluctantly walks over to where Jack is reclining on the couch, and Jack pats his own leg. Brock bristles. Here he is, miserable and angry, being commanded like a dog to sit in its master’s lap. He just glares down at Jack, refusing to move. 

Jack is unfazed by his pouting. “Safeword or sit, or else I’m going to punish you.” 

Just yesterday Brock was forced to kneel in the corner for three hours with Jack’s belt in his mouth because Jack got sick of his whining. He doesn’t want to be punished again, so he reluctantly straddles his husband, but stays stiff and distant.

Jack just coos, pulls him in close, rubs soothing circles across his back like he’s a baby or something. He wants to be angry, but Jack’s touch is everything he’s been craving all this time, and he finds himself melting into it, rage evaporating with it.

“Know you’re all pent up, honey, that’s why you’re actin’ like a big brat.” 

Brock has to bite back a retort.

“But you’re doing so good.” Jack’s voice is a low rumble and he peppers Brock’s cheek and neck with kisses. Brock buries his face in the safety of Jack’s neck and lets his familiar scent calm him.

“When are you gonna stop?” He whines. 

Jack likes to pretend like Brock is some delicate fragile thing In their scenes, and Brock knows he’s got a weakness for when he plays along. And Brock keeps trying to convince himself the fluttering feeling in his gut when he does is humiliation and not anything else. 

“In a couple of days.”

Brock is pawing at Jack’s shirt, hoping to rile him up a little. “You’ve been saying that for weeks now. And you just kept ignoring me.” He felt sick wondering if Jack is mad at him or just got bored.  Before Jack, Rumlow’s relationships never lasted long. Brock was never quite satisfied, often not even sure himself what he wanted, and he lost many lovers from being too high maintenance.

“M’not ignoring you, princess. Quite the opposite, can’t stop thinkin’ about you. All desperate and horny for me.”

It’s sweet, but it does nothing to alleviate Brock’s frustration.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you why I'm not touching you?”

Brock makes a non-committed noise. 

“It’s ‘cause I want you all squirmy and desperate for me. Want you to be so on edge, go crazy with how much you want me. And so blissed out when you finally get it.”

That sounds good,  _ real  _ good. But Brock makes a face like he’s torn. Because he thinks he has leverage, thinks he can manipulate Jack into giving him what he wants.

“M’sorry if you’ve been feelin’ lonely, sweetheart. C’mere for a bit, we’ll spend some time together.” Jack reels him in for a chaste kiss, holding Brock tight against his body. Brock tries to deepen it, to lick into Jack’s mouth, but then Jack is pushing him by the shoulder to get him to kneel on the floor. 

Brock is about to be angry again until he sees Jack unzipping his jeans. Jack laughs seeing his eyes light up like a puppy begging for a treat as he pulls out his limp dick. 

“Want my cock in your mouth?”

“Yes sir.” Brock says, licking his lips. If he can get Jack off he might just return the favor.

“Then you better come here. Hands behind your back.”

Brock shuffles closer, settling in between Jack’s open knees with his back arched just the way Jack likes. He wriggles Jack’s cock into his mouth, smiling a little when he feels it start to chub up. Purring, he knows to stop and wait for further instructions. Jack hums pleasantly, petting his head with warm affection. The scent of his musk and pulse on Brock's tongue is enough to get Brock rock hard.

“That’s better, hmm? My nice lil’ cocksleeve.” Jack says, “Now we can spend some time together. Just stay there and don’t move.”

Brock sputters. What? This wasn’t—what about—ugh, he’s going **_kill_ ** Jack. 

Said man laughs. “What? You think I was just gonna give in just like that? Think again, princess.”

Brock glares daggers at him, but it’s not at all intimidating with Jack’s dick stuffing his mouth. He huffs to make his displeasure known.

“Now don’t pout, you’re lucky you’re getting this at all.” Jack sighs and stretches out on the couch, drapes a long arm across the back, open yet unflinchingly dominant.


	3. Chapter 3

Their new dynamic takes getting used to. Sure, Jack and Brock messed around before, got rough and dirty and nasty but there was no organization to it. No scripts or rules or expectations. It was just pure, improvised lust. 

So Brock thinks Jack must be out of his mind when he lays down the new laundry list of rules he expects him to follow. Brock has to call Jack _sir_ , do whatever he says, and Brock isn’t even allowed to touch his own dick without permission. He scoffs, rolls his eyes, because he thinks it’s all just pageantry. Just a game.

He doesn’t even see it coming when Jack stalks up behind him, hand sealing over his mouth so tight there are bound to be bruises. The jacket Brock was fumbling with falls to the floor, forgotten. His head spins from the alcohol in his veins, but Jack steadies him.

“Now I’m gonna make this real easy for ya, sweetheart.” Jack says with a voice full of danger. Brock’s heart thuds in his chest. “You do as I say. The only thing I wanna hear outta filthy fucking mouth of yours is either ‘yes, sir’ or your safeword, do you understand me?”

Brock can only nod. 

“For too long you been runnin’ around like a nasty brat, throwing tantrums n’ whoring yourself out to get attention. No more. I gave you rules, that you _agreed to_ , and yet you still strut around like a slut.” Jack steers them to the bed, sitting down and hauling Brock across his lap. 

“You wanted to be mine, now I’m gonna teach you how I get my pets to behave.” Jack is yanking down his jeans and underwear to expose his ass. He can’t actually be planning to…!? Brock tries to sit up, fight back, but Jack grabs him by his hair, pins his arm behind his back, and shoves his face into the mattress, suffocating him. “Keep your fucking head down.” Jack barks. 

Jack strips off his own belt and before Brock even knows what’s coming to him pain explodes across his ass with a loud _crack_. He shrieks into the bedsheets, gasps in desperate breaths now that Jack isn’t holding his head down. He’s still got his boots on and they tear at the slippery sheets, trying to worm away, to get out from under Jack’s painful hold. But Brock is in no condition to fight him, tipsy as he is.

Each strike hits harder and harder, one after the other in perfect precision, no pausing, no breaks. Holding him down so Brock has no choice but to take it. The same strategy Jack uses when he’s fucking him. Jack likes to take his time, work Brock up little by little so he needs more, more, _harder, faster, fuck, Jack,_ **_please_ ** —

So it's not long before Brock starts to lean into the hits the same way he rocks back to meet Jack’s cock inside him. Until he’s rolling back for the next hit, but it doesn’t come, making him sob pitifully while Jack teases the belt against the rows of inflamed stripes of skin. Robbed of the euphoric adrenaline that numbs the pain, Brock’s ass throbs with renewed agony.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” Jack asks.

Brock is blinking, trying to recall the events of the last few hours. They were out having drinks with friends, Brock was getting kind of rowdy like he usually does when he’s sauced, the way he's overly friendly and touchy and...

“I...I flirted with the bartender.”

“And why was that bad?” Jack’s got the tone of a long suffering parent, annoyingly condescending. Brock snarls in response, but three strikes come down in quick succession, right on top of one another. It kills his rebellion.

“Cause—Cause I belong to you?”

Jack hums in approval. “That’s a good boy.” 

Brock’s stomach flutters from the praise. Along with ache on his glutes, he becomes hyper aware of his cock throbbing against Jack’s thigh. A warm palm skates under Brock’s shirt, rubs in soothing circles while Jack’s deep hum lulls him. 

“You’re all mine, Princess, and I’ll give you all the love and attention you need and more. All I ask in return is that you obey me.” Jack palms Brock’s reddened cheeks, the heat worsening the searing pain. But Brock groans all the same, humping Jack’s thigh and rocking back into the fiery touch of his hand. 

Jack snorts. “Even a slut for your punishment. Should have figured.”

The words barely process with his head swimming the way it is, all Brock can think about is getting Jack to hurt him more. He whines and arches his back for it.

“Beg me for it. Beg me to fucking beat your ass.” Jack says.

"Oh, c'mon—" Brock starts to argue, until Jack twists his wrist further up his back. Brock jerks forward, trying to alleviate the uncomfortable position, but it only forces all his weight onto his neck and shoulders, face smothered in the mattress. "Don't try to pretend this isn't what you want, not when your dick is drooling all over my jeans."

“Please, please—fuck—” Brock gasps.

“Please _what_?”

“Please just fucking hit me, sir. Please hit me.”

“Gonna have to find a different way to punish you. You’re enjoying this too much.” Jack says, but the belt comes down once again, lighting fiery pain on Brock’s flesh. It’s not nearly as hard as before, but soon they ramp up in intensity until Brock is riding on wave after wave of bliss. 

“Say thank you.” Jack growls. 

“Thank you! Fuck! Thank you, sir—Jack , fuck!”

Strikes start overlapping one another, making Brock writhe and jolt and cry. The pain is there, sure, but his head is floating and familiar warmth is simmering in his gut.

“I’m gonna cum, gonna cum—” Brock is chanting frantically.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Jack snarls, but doesn’t let up even a bit. Brock can’t stop it, his entire body lights up in ecstasy as he cums, shooting off between Jack’s thighs. He’s blubbering apologies and pleas through it all until he goes limp, sticky and sore and still dizzy. 

Jack pets him all over, tuts mournfully, “Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna regret that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my[ Tumblr (LeviathanHomeCooking) ](https://leviathanhomecooking.tumblr.com)


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